The Child on the Cliffs
Edward Thomas 1878 (London Borough of Lambeth) – 1917 (Pas-de-Calais)
Mother, the root of this little yellow flower
Among the stones has the taste of quinine.
Things are strange to-day on the cliff. The sun shines so bright,
And the grasshopper works at his sewing machine
So hard. Here's one on my hand, mother, look;
I lie so still. There's one on your book.
But I have something to tell more strange. So leave
Your book to the grasshopper, mother dear, -
Like a green knight in a dazzling market-place -
And listen now. Can you hear what I hear
Far out? Now and then the foam there curls
And stretches a white arm out like a girl's.
Fishes and gulls ring no bells. There cannot be
A chapel or church between here and Devon,
With fishes or gulls ringing its bell, - hark! -
Somewhere under the sea or up in heaven.
'It's the bell, my son, out in the bay
On the buoy. It does sound sweet to-day.'
Sweeter I never heard, mother, no, not in all Wales.
I should like to be lying under that foam,
Dead, but able to hear the sound of the bell,
And certain that you would often come
And rest, listening happily.
I should be happy if that could be.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 1:04 min read
- 53 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | XXXXAA XXXXBB CDXDEE XXXXCC |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic pentameter |
Characters | 1,057 |
Words | 211 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 6, 6, 6, 6 |
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"The Child on the Cliffs" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 4 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/9885/the-child-on-the-cliffs>.
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